


A Ballad for Rosie Watson

by properlybeautiful (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, But like only for five seconds don't worry, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, What else do I tag this...., violin playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22292929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/properlybeautiful
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in the middle of the night to Rosie crying. He decides to get her back to sleep by playing his latest piece on the violin: a song dedicated to her.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 118





	A Ballad for Rosie Watson

Based on the pitch black sky outside the window, it had to have been reasonably late when Sherlock was woken up by a faint noise coming from outside the bedroom.

He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows as the room came into focus, glancing around looking for anything that was even slightly abnormal. The bedroom door was pushed closed to a crack, letting in a small sliver of light from the hallway. The curtains were closed tightly, but a beam of light appeared every now and then as a car drove past the flat. It was still raining outside, the soft water pattering down the windows of building, like it had been earlier that night. Everything on the bedside table was still in the exact same spot, not a hair out of place. 

Everything was as it had been when he and John had gone to bed a number of hours earlier. Sherlock sighed. He fell back onto the pillows and folded his arms across his chest. _I must’ve imagined it,_ he thought. _Probably the insomnia coming back again_. Sherlock had been doing better lately, with sleeping. John had helped him get into a routine, one that came easy when caring for a nocturnal baby. 

Nocturnal baby. Rosie. Of course.

Sherlock sat up again, craning his neck to try and hear any more noises.

Rosie had been relatively quiet and well-behaved all day. Sherlock and John had left her with Mrs. Hudson for the day while John worked and Sherlock ran experiments in the St. Bart’s lab. There hadn’t been a case to solve for a long while, but then Rosie had kept everyone occupied anyway. Most days Sherlock would come home, then John, normally stressed and tired, arrived a few hours later. No one was in the mood to listen to clients ramble for hours on end after that, and today was no exception. Sherlock had finished running his experiments, came back to the flat, and entertained Rosie until John returned. There had been too many unnecessarily worried patients at the surgery that day, Sherlock had deduced as John came in and collapsed into his chair. (The answers were all in his expression, anyway). Probably frantic work-from-home mothers complaining about headaches that they thought were brain cancer. Perhaps a handful of men that were convinced they had malaria or something of the like. He was always 100% right when John told him about his day a few minutes later, and it always sounded 100% worse than periphrastic clients. 

Sleep always came rather easily, until Rosie’s cries became their hourly alarm clock, something that he thought he heard going off now. Sherlock listened closely for a further sound. Nothing. He turned his head and looked at John, wondering if he seemed to hear anything, but he was sprawled out, buried beneath a pile of blankets. It was clear from his open mouth and quiet snores that he was far from wakefulness. His left arm was flung out so it was resting across Sherlock’s abdomen, half of his face hidden in a couple of pillows. It was obvious he was exhausted, but sleep gave John a softer appearance, made him look younger. Sherlock smiled at him, fighting the urge to brush some of John’s silvery blonde hair away from his eyes and kiss him to his heart’s content. 

Then he heard it. A soft mewl from down the hall, followed by a louder cry. Definitely Rosie. The wails rapidly got more and more raucous until they arguably became screams. John stirred at the noise, mumbling. 

“Shh, shh, hey. John, sleep. It’s alright. I’ll take care of her,” Sherlock whispered, desperately wanting for John to remain asleep. He rubbed John’s back and shoulders in a soothing circular motion that he normally used when he was having another nightmare. John slowly relaxed back into sleep, rolling over so that he was curled up facing away from Sherlock. Sherlock adjusted the covers and tucked them snugly around John’s small figure before creeping out of the room and into the living room where Rosie lay on her cot. 

In a couple steps, Sherlock was at her side and scooping her up into his arms, rocking her back and forth. Her cries subsided almost instantly, and she silently gazed up at her godfather with large, innocent eyes. John’s eyes. He studied her features closely for a moment. She looked uncannily like her mother. Everything about her, her dimples, her cheeks, her lips—belonged to Mary. But the eyes were entirely John’s. Sherlock loved the color of them, the unique blend of blues and grays and browns. Her long lashes fluttered and then shut before opening again after a moment, almost as though she was playing her own version of peek-a-boo. 

Sherlock smiled, but then stared at her solemnly for a moment. He couldn’t be trusted with something so delicate, so _beautiful_. He had let so many people down so many times. The fall, then Mary...how could John trust him with his only daughter? Sherlock looked at her for a moment more. But that was the admirable thing about John. No matter how many times Sherlock royally screwed up, no matter how angry John was at him in the moment, he came back. God only knew why, but he did. And he does. And for that Sherlock is grateful. 

Rosie eyed him happily, cooing softly and smiling. “You are being tremendously noisy this evening, Watson,” Sherlock said with mock-poshness. 

Rosie babbled obliviously, reaching up at Sherlock’s curls. He lowered his head slightly, allowing her small fingers to run through them, grasping on lightly at first, and then more hard. “Ow, that hurts, Watson,” he exclaimed with a grunt, but still letting her play. She giggled adorably, and Sherlock felt his heart soar with a love he had never known. It wasn’t the admirable love he had for Mycroft, or the pure affection he shared for John. This was different. And he didn’t mind a single bit. 

“What is the trouble, then?” Sherlock asked gently. “Did you have a nightmare?” He looked at Rosie, who despite not being able to speak, gave him his answer with one look. 

“Yes, I have those, too,” Sherlock replied. “And so does your dad, though he doesn’t like to talk about them.” He maneuvers Rosie so she sat upwards in his arms, eye-to-eye. “Sometimes they’re about really gruesome murders—which are very entertaining and frankly fascinating, mind you—but sometimes they involve...they involve...well, I’ll tell you one day. But sometimes I lose Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson. I lose John—I lose you. I lose the people who are the most important people in the world to me.” Sherlock sighed, stroking Rosie’s head, which is covered in thin fuzz from where her hair is beginning to grow in. “But then I wake up, and John is there. You’re there...everyone is there, and I know it is all okay. And I’ll be there for you, just like I am now. I promise, I’ll protect you, Rosie Watson. You don’t have to worry about anything. John and I are here, and we are not leaving. Do you understand?” 

Rosie gazed up at him with big eyes. Her expression looked slightly confused, but Sherlock got the feeling that she understood his words perfectly. “I have something special I’ve been working on for you,” Sherlock says. Rosie coos softly and reaches out, wrapping her arms around Sherlock’s neck. “Come along, Watson.” 

Sherlock carried her around for a moment, calming her, and then makes his way into the sitting room, which is still filled with clutter from the day. Petri dishes, vials and beakers lay around a microscope on the kitchen table. Jars of various organs and body parts are distributed along the counter tops. Rosie grabbed for a container of fingers which Sherlock hastily covered with a towel and moved out of her reach. 

“It’s for an experiment,” Sherlock said simply, looking at Rosie who looked back curiously. “Now. Where is it?” Sherlock tip-toed around the kitchen with Rosie on his hip, who seemed to be searching for whatever it was they were supposed to be looking for as well. 

“Ah, here it is,” Sherlock said, rustling through an untidy pile of papers until he came across what he needed: a fresh piece of paper with rows of the musical staff printed across it. 

A series of half, quarter, eighth and sixteenth notes were written neatly across each line in a pattern. Sherlock picked up the sheet and walked out into the living room. He gently set Rosie so she laid in her cot looking up at him. Then Sherlock quickly retrieved his violin from its case on the mantle and set the music on its stand. Positioning the bow on the strings, he began to play softly. A series of elegant chords sounded throughout the room, a variety of C’s and E’s and A’s. The playing sent Sherlock into his own world for a moment, sending him into a pool of memories. Memories of Mycroft playing the piano while Sherlock accompanied him on the violin, and playing in his dormitory at university to calm his stress during exams. It made him remember the days when John had first moved into the flat and would gawk at him for standing in the same spot for hours on end, not speaking or moving, just playing note after note. The times when John would wake from a nightmare and the soft sonatas would lull him back to sleep.

The Woman came into his thoughts briefly, but he brushed her away and thought about the waltz he wrote for John and Mary. Then the days when he would visit his sister Eurus in her cell and the two would play a duet together in silence, the music their only form of communication…

He was lost for a moment, thinking, until the song ended. He sighed and stared out the window at the lights of London before snapping back to reality. “I hope you enjoyed it, Watson. It wasn’t an easy piece to write.” Sherlock turned around to look at Rosie, only to find her fast asleep, a small smile playing on her lips. Sherlock grinned, full of raw love for Rosie and set his violin aside. He slowly leaned down and picked her up, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. There was no reason they couldn't just spend a few minutes out here. Sherlock walked over to his chair and sat down, being extra careful as not to wake the baby. He looked at her small face, filled with love, and planted a kiss on her head. 

A quiet cough startled him out of his daze. He looked up to see John standing in the doorway, blearily staring at him, his hair tousled from sleep. He looked utterly adorable. "So that's where you went, then," John whispered, making his way over to Sherlock. 

"She was crying," Sherlock explained, looking up at him. "How long were you standing there?" 

"Mm, not long." John crouched down next to the chair, stroking Rosie's cheek with his thumb. "You got her back to sleep though." 

"Yes." 

"How?" John asked, almost with a bit of fascination. "It used to take Mary and I at least an hour. It still does, at least with me." 

"Played her a song on my violin," Sherlock answered, gesturing to the instrument that lay next to the chair. 

"One of your original compositions?" John questioned. Sherlock nodded. 

"What's it called?" 

"Haven't named it yet, actually, now that you mention it," Sherlock said. John nodded and stood, grabbing a pen from the table. "Here." He tossed the pen in Sherlock's direction. 

Sherlock reached for the music that lay with the violin, and scrawled neatly along the top the words: "Rosie's Ballad"

"Rosie's Ballad," John repeated. "I like it. Play it again some time. Maybe it'll get her to sleep faster," he joked. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a yawn. "Come on, bed," John ordered, gently picking up Rosie and carrying her to the cot. He kissed her goodnight and set her on her back, then took Sherlock's hand and led him back to the bedroom. 

The pair crawled under the covers, exhaustion washing over them once again. John sighed contentedly and shifted towards Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his waste. 

"Do you think you could manage to sleep on your own side of the bed tonight, my dear Watson?" Sherlock teased. 

"Shut up," John murmured sleepily. Sherlock grabbed John's hand and linked their fingers together with an affectionate squeeze. 

"I love you, have I mentioned that?" John whispered, his breath tickling Sherlock's neck.

"Might've mentioned it once or twice," he replied. 

"Mm. Well it's true. And you're a good father." 

"Godfather," Sherlock corrected. 

"Nope. Father," John argued. "Rosie is your family, too."

Sherlock smiled widely, flipping onto his other side so that he was now facing John. He could just make out his silhouette through the darkness. "I love you so much," he murmured. 

John exhaled, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's. "Mmmm. G'night, Sherlock," he murmured sleepily. 

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock replied, before sleep overcame him and John's breathing and the notes of Rosie's Ballad carried him off. 

\--

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU for reading!! Also thank you to my personal cheerleader @thunderbirdauror7 (Ilysm!! <3) Any of your feedback is loved and appreciated, but even if you read this, it means the world to me. Thank you so much again, and I hope you enjoyed this! :D


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